


Against The Darkness, So Bright

by WolfieOnAO3



Category: Raffles (TV 1977), Raffles - E. W. Hornung
Genre: Bunny character study, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Crime & Christmas 2020, Fluff, M/M, Quiet and Soft, a little pinch of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:35:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28298367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfieOnAO3/pseuds/WolfieOnAO3
Summary: 'I think I missed what I’d never had... I hated Christmas for want of it; for want of what I thought it was...’Christmas Eve, 1891.
Relationships: Bunny Manders/A. J. Raffles
Comments: 11
Kudos: 11
Collections: Crime & Christmas 2020





	Against The Darkness, So Bright

**Author's Note:**

> Ostensibly this is for the Crime and Christmas prompt, 25: Mulled Wine....
> 
> What, I mention Mulled Wine?! It totally counts!

The night drew in on Christmas Eve, 1891. Raffles and I were the both of us sat curled up on his sopha in the Albany; the fire was blazing, the gaslights turned down low, two glasses of mulled wine, half drunk, sitting long since cooled on the sideboard. Our day had been a bright one, our evening a merry one, and as the stars twinkled one by one into ever-brighter existence in the velvet sky, our night softly drifted into a quiet one. But the silence was neither sorrowful nor lonely. The floorboards creaked, the fire crackled, the clock on the mantel ticked, and at my side, in soft and even measures, Raffles’ breath rose and fell in a soft and soothing rhythm. I laid my head on his shoulder, and, without words, his arm snaked behind me to wrap around my waist; a kiss was gently pressed upon the crown of my head, and suddenly, as a river suddenly breaks its banks after weeks of rain, I found myself overwhelmed.

‘Last year,’ I said beneath my breath, so quietly as to barely be heard, ‘I spent Christmas at a Club with a group of other men who really didn’t like me very much, gambling, and drinking, and doing my damndest to forget that it was Christmas at all.’

Raffles made no reply. I stared into the fire.

‘The Christmas before that I spent with the now Lord Lochmaben’s family, an unwanted guest relying on nothing more than their desire to _keep up appearances_ to save me from being thrown out. I drank too much and talked too little; and all I did say was met with barely veiled disdain at best and open insults at worst. I was a burden even to the girl who was supposed to love me, for she was merry and gay and overbrimming with the joys of the season, whilst I was sombre and needy and about as filled with Christmas spirit as Ebenezer Scrooge. But the ghosts who haunted me had failed to change me whilst they were alive; they had little hope of doing so in death.’

‘The Christmas before that—’ I broke off with a sigh. ‘Honestly, I don’t even recall what I was doing or where I was, or with whom. But I know that I wasn’t happy, and that I wasn’t — _wanted_. All around me were images of families and friends, cheerful dinners, merry evenings, presents chosen with the greatest love and care, people falling asleep on a world that they loved and which loved them in return. Christmas is always so filled with messages of _togetherness_ and _hope_ and _joy_ , and I remember thinking, I remember _knowing_ that those messages would never be for _me_. Even before my parents passed, I never quite felt that _Christmas Spirit_. It never felt like they say it does in the stories. And after they were gone there was no more need to pretend. I no longer had any expectations to disappoint. I had no-one and nothing left to live up to. Would you think me terrible if I said that something in that was freeing?’

‘No,’ Raffles replied quietly, proving that he was listening.

‘Well it _was_ freeing, but it wasn’t— I wasn’t— I hadn’t ever been prepared for that sort of freedom. I didn’t know what to do with it; I didn’t know what — I didn’t know what I _was_ . All my life I've been so painfully aware of what I _ought to be_ , and all of the ways _I'm not_ _it;_ that was one of my few constants, the fact of my existence being a constant disappointment to just about everyone. But then I found myself on my own, more alone even than I had been before, and—’ I shrugged. ‘I was on my own. I was on my own, and Christmas rolled around, year after year, and all of my so-called friends faded away; flew back to their families, flew back to their lives, flew back to their togetherness, and hopefulness, and mirth. And I was still alone.’ 

‘I think I missed what I’d never had,’ I said distantly, mostly to myself. ‘I missed the large, loving family I never had; I missed carols never sung around the piano; I missed never decorating Christmas trees with my mother; I missed never being told ghost stories on Christmas eve by my father; I missed friends and extended family who would still _be_ _there_ once my parents had—’ I closed my eyes and swallowed. ‘I hated Christmas, Raffles. I hated it for want of it; for want of what I thought it was. For how badly I wanted what the rest of the world seemed to have, so easily.'

Thirty-five ticks of the clock went softly into the night before either of us spoke again.

‘Do you still?’ Raffles asked, quietly.

‘No,’ I said, still staring into the fire, watching the sparks like tiny fairies dart up into the chimneypiece, glowing against the darkness, so bright, before burning out in a flash. ‘This is better.’

Beside me Raffles shifted in his seat, and when I turned to look at him, I found him already looking down at me, his lips parted as though he were about to speak, though no words came. For a moment I gazed up into clear eyes which shone in the firelight; eyes which said more in their silence than my words could in their rambling loquacity. I leaned up to brush my lips against his; when I moved away he chased, kissing me with such fierceness that it stole my breath away, before wrapping his strong arms around me and pulling me into an embrace that felt like a fortress.

He didn’t speak, and the velvet-soft night drifted back into its peaceful silence, the floorboards creaking, the fireplace crackling, the tick, tick, tick of the clock on the mantel marking the precious, perfect seconds as they passed. Beneath my cheek Raffles’ chest rose and fell in a soft and soothing rhythm, his breath warm against the crown of my head as he breathed into my hair. I didn't need the Christmas I had dreamt of in my youth; I didn't need the Christmases I had watched others enjoy from afar. More still, I found I didn't _want_ them. In that moment I didn't want for a thing more than I had. The world could keep its picture-book Christmases, keep its carols, keep its trees, keep its illusions of what Christmas ought to be — of what _I ought to be._ This was better.

 _Yes_ , I thought to myself as I closed my eyes, as Raffles closed his hand around mine: _This is better._


End file.
